


I am not there

by Sternenstaub



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Ficlet, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad, TW3 spoilers, Vesemirs funeral, as in the game, eskel pov, the aftermath of the attack on kaer morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29903295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenstaub/pseuds/Sternenstaub
Summary: After the wild hunt attacked Kaer Morhen the last witcher of old is laid to rest.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fiction Challenge #017





	I am not there

**Author's Note:**

> okay, this is sad. There`s no happy ending, no happily ever after. This is just a short episode about mourning, grief and loneliness.

It was over.  
The fight was over. The wild hunt was no more.  
The eternal winter would not approach the continent.  
The danger was over.  
The era of witchers was over, the best of them dead.

Vesemir was lying motionless in the rubble that had once been his home. Body bruised by the stone that had shaped his very being, blood trickling into the joints that held together what had once been their life. White blossoms fell down on his face, tinted red within a heartbeat. Tiny petals carried by the wind, settling on the still and lifeless face. 

Eskel looked at his mentor, his teacher and father figure, the man who had raised him and his brothers and had died to protect the youngest and brightest of their kind, young Cirilla. The child that had brought hope into their hearts.

He couldn’t believe Vesemir was dead, he’d been a constant for all of Eskel`s life, waiting for them to come home every winter, making sure they were prepared for the things the continent would throw at them when they left again. The seasons would feel empty without the promise of a safe place to return to. Without the knowledge of at least one person waiting for him to come home. Without someone caring.

Vesemir had not always been a friend, or family, hell, Eskel had hated him for years. Being brought in as a young boy, being made to train until you almost fainted, the looming knowledge of the trials above their heads, all boys had hated their teachers, Vesemir included. But the witcher had also made sure the boys knew how to hold a sword, knew where to strike a monster and most of all, learned when it was better to walk away instead of risking your life.

It had taken Eskel years to realize how valuable that last lesson had been, many other schools did not care about retreat, about keeping your body intact in exchange for a hurt reputation and it had cost many young Witchers their life. Vesemir had tried his best to ensure Eskel, Geralt and Lambert and all the others who had lasted as long as destiny had allowed them to, would not be one of them.

The old witcher who had seen the order of the Witchers fall, had been present and watched his brothers` blood paint the stone as did his now. In a way, all witchers of the past were reunited now, Eskel mused.  
The thought didn't help at all. He felt like he was choking, his chest was about to explode and he didn't know what to do about it. Breathing evenly didn`t help anymore, it only made him feel like he was drowning. There was nothing to hit or set ablaze, he wanted to scream his pain into the mountains, to turn the pain into fire and smoke. But Ciri and Geralt needed him, needed him to be strong and there.

Their youngest witcher, young Ciri, was crying on Geralt`s shoulder, whose eyes were rimmed red. Lambert stared at Vesemir`s body like he couldn’t believe it. Like he had never even considered their old mentor was mortal. Frozen in shock and grief.

Eskel knew his own pain had to wait. Had to be swallowed. He had always been good at repressing his emotions, at helping others to forget his own feelings. At smiling while his heart broke in two.  
So that was what he did. He gave the people who had so valiantly fought for them different tasks, kept them busy and made sure they felt useful, needed. They made sure the keep wasn`t burning anywhere, what with Triss fireballs and his own traps having gone up all around (he should have laid more of them, should have made them more potent, should have done more) and made sure Vesemir would be laid out as was worthy for a witcher. 

It took him all day to organize the keep, to make sure Ciri wouldn't accidentally walk into the room Vesemir was prepared in for his last journey. Made sure Lambert, who had started to drink himself into numbness with a blonde sorceress, ate and stayed coherent. And gave Geralt small tasks to keep him from thinking too much, to keep his two sorceresses busy and at bay. 

In the evening they congregated again. All of them.  
Together they built a pyre. Worthy of a witcher who had died while fighting for what he believed in. Vesemir would see his beloved mountains and the keep. The last thing he would be surrounded with would be all the family he had left and the knowledge that he had been loved. Eskel hoped their mentor knew that.

The fire burned and with it the last parental figure Eskel had left, the last person he had been allowed to ask for advice.  
The pressure in his chest became unbearable and while Ciri was weeping into Geralt`s chest and Lambert was crushing a flask in his hand, Eskel allowed himself to shed a few tears.

Cirilla felt responsible for the death of Vesemir, in her youth still believing none of the other witchers had ever seen someone die because they made a mistake, or just because being close to a witcher was dangerous. Eskel had hoped life would give their youngest witcher more time until she had to learn this lesson. People died, even those you believed to be strong, even those not quite human. And sometimes you were the one responsible.

When Ciri ran away with Vesemir's medallion, everyone else also dispersed. Only Eskel remained, with no sorceress to keep him company, with no child he had to care for, only with the swords on his back and a path to walk in front of him.

He watched the pyre burn until his eyes stung from the smoke. The same tiny white petals twirled around in the wind, glowing orange until they went up in flames.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by this poem
> 
> Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep  
> by Mary Elizabeth Frye
> 
> Do not stand at my grave and weep,  
> I am not there; I do not sleep.  
> I am a thousand winds that blow,  
> I am the diamond glints on snow,  
> I am the sun on ripened grain,  
> I am the gentle autumn rain.  
> When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
> I am the swift uplifting rush  
> Of quiet birds in circling flight.  
> I am the soft star-shine at night.  
> Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
> I am not there; I did not die.


End file.
